


Intervention I

by littlemiss_m



Series: Intervention [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: (that's for ignis & the apparent lack of child labor laws in insomnia), Eating Disorders, Friendship, Gen, Ignis is a Good Friend, Past Child Abuse, Prompto Argentum Needs a Hug, helping a friend overcome their eating disorder because you've been there too, noctis and gladio are good friends too but they're really minor in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 02:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14991260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemiss_m/pseuds/littlemiss_m
Summary: As a child, Ignis fell into the rabbit hole of obsessively counting what he ate. He got help, though, and now as an adult, he sees Prompto struggling with the same issue and knows it's his turn to be the help to someone else.





	Intervention I

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! I haven't really written a lot of anything lately, so here's a really random oneshot that's been brewing in my mind for ages!
> 
> As tagged, this fic deals with eating disorders; they're not just a mention or an implication, but the theme of the entire thing. Half of the fic is Ignis and Prompto discussing the topic, so if this is a problem for you, please don't read!
> 
> Also, the whole child abuse thing. In a way I can understand why canon is what it is but for me personally, the idea of taking a little kid and telling them they're responsible for another, younger kid, who also happens to be the crown prince and therefore the most important person in the country... That's just a bit too wild! 
> 
> Anyways, please enjoy! <3

Ignis hears Prompto long before the blond enters the apartment; his footfalls, echoing in the staircase, carry the same peppy cheer that makes him who he is. He tries to be silent, Ignis knows, but happily running all the way until the pentsuite floor is not a quiet maneuver no matter who attempts it.

”Hi!” comes the bright greeting as soon as Prompto is inside. Ignis sets down the onion he's working on and peeks his head out of the kitchen. ”Hi Ignis!”

”Ah, welcome,” Ignis says. ”Noctis and Gladio will be a bit late, in case they didn't think to text you.”

Prompto pauses at the entrance, still undoing his shoelaces, and glances towards the empty living room area. His expression is comically open, everything bared for the world to see, and Ignis can't resist a fond smile. ”No!” Prompto gasps. ”Really? They didn't tell me! Nothing bad's going on, right?”

”No, no, everything is fine,” Ignis says, shaking his head. ”That said, would you like to help me prepare our dinner? I could use a hand, unless you wish to get started on homework first.”

Prompto grins at him, almost bouncing on his feet, and Ignis – who knows more than Prompto thinks he knows – watches him for any hints of the shadow hiding underneath, but finds none. Prompto's openness is the ultimate mask: when his face betrays even the slightest changes in his emotions, none would suspect an underlying secret. None but Ignis, Noctis, and Gladio, who see Prompto often enough to easily spot the hair fracture cracks in the mask.

”Sure thing!” Prompto chirps, when chuckles and tilts his head towards the bathroom. ”I'm just gonna...”

He trails off but Ignis doesn't mind, simply nodding his head before returning to the onion. He peels it, quarters it, and throws it into a blender, then grabs a bulb of garlic from where he's laid out the ingredients. The work is routine by now and Ignis moves almost on autopilot, waiting for Prompto to show up; when he does, he carries the scent of Noctis' handwash with him but stops at the sink all the same, quickly scrubbing his hands clean a second time.

”Soo,” Prompto begins, drawing out the word as he spins to face Ignis. ”What d'you want me to do?”

Ignis points at a small pile of carrots and apples sitting by the sink. ”If you could peel and grate those into a bowl, that would be much appreciated,” he says. Prompto nods and gets to work without a complaint.

”What're we making?” he asks after a moment. He doesn't look at Ignis – standing in front of the sink, he'd have to turn around for that – but this time, there's the slightest hint of worry in his voice.

Ignis waves a hand at the pile of ingredients before him. ” _These_ will go into a curry paste to season our whole roast chicken,” he says. ”You, on the other hand, are about to prepare a very simple grated salad out of carrots and apples.”

Prompto whistles. ”Doesn't it take forever to roast a whole chicken, though?”

”Twenty minutes a pound, so no, not too long,” Ignis replies while crushing a clove of garlic under the blade. ”Truth be told, that salad is one of the very first I ever learned. I've grown quite fond of it and, even more impressively, even Noctis will eat it without complaint.”

Too busy throwing the crushed glarlics into the blender, Ignis misses the chance to look at Prompto. It doesn't seem to matter, though, since the blond gasps in exaggerated wonder, actually spinning around to look over his shoulder. ”Really? But it's got carrots! Noct hates carrots more than any other veggie!”

Ignis laughs and dries off his hands. ”I imagine it's the sweetness of the apple,” he muses. ”The texture doesn't bother him either. A small miracle, but one I'm more than willing to accept.”

Prompto's laughter mingles with his and Ignis grins, though deep inside, his heart feelt heavy. The sound of the blender whirring covers the rhytmic scratch of a carrot being shredded by the grater and Ignis lets the conversation drop for now. They work in silence, Prompto grating first the carrots and then the apples, while Ignis rubs the curry paste into the chicken skin. Even before roasting, the chicken is a glorious sight; just the perfect size for four hungry men, and the paste stains the pale pink skin a brownish green. Allowing himself a quiet praise, Ignis quickly washedshis hands and pushes the chicken into the oven.

When he straightens up, he sees Prompto was still working on the apples. Ignis hesitates for a moment, unsure of how to bring up the issue, but he – and Gladio and Noctis – had planned this in advance and made their decision in the matter, and really, there is no reason to not go ahead with it. That thought in mind, Ignis grabs a bag of brussel's sprouts from the fridge and begins halving them.

”Would you mind,” he speaks carefully, his mouth dry all of sudden,” if I were to tell you a story?”

When Prompto glances at him over his shoulder, there's a puzzled look on his face, but he doesn't know to expect the talk ahead of them; Ignis sees it in the casual set of his jaw, the loose shoulders. If he thinks something wrong with the situation, he thinks it's Ignis who's in trouble of some kind, but Ignis in turn knows it is Prompto who needs the help.

”Uh, sure?” Prompto answers. He licks his lips, nervous or worried, Ignis can't tell. ”Is everything okay?”

Ignis shakes his head and cuts through a brussel's sprout. ”I was brough to Insomnia at the age of eight, though in a way, my training had started as soon as my teachers realized I was far more intelligent than the average child of my age,” he begins, casting a quick look at Prompto. ”Though I had His Majesty and my uncle supporting and protecting me, my training was still arduous and, to be frank, far too grueling for someone as young as I was.”

The sounds of an apple being grated fall silent before he's entirely finished with speaking. Prompto makes a sound, a pained little whine. ”Yeah,” he says, ”that – that must have sucked, dude.”

Ignis smiles softly. ”Perhaps it did,” he says, ”but I am happy with how things turned out in the end. Anyway – during my training, I had most parts of my life scripted for me by someone else. My teachers decided when I had lessons and when I ate, and when they began teaching me court etiquette, they also decided what I ate and how. Any 'free' time I had was spent studying and working on bettering myself even further.”

Prompto looks openly upset but not nervous, and that's a distinction Ignis has learned to make months and months previously; the blond will show sympathy for others like it was his own heart bleeding out, but when it comes to his own hurt, he will automatically clam up. ”Dude,” he says, frowning and elongating the word until it fades out with the last of his breath. ”That's – fucked up, man.”

”And as I said, things turned out well in the end,” Ignis repeats his earlier words. He's done slicing the brussel's sprouts so he collects them in a bowl until it's time to throw them in the pan with the chicken. ”One day, I was taken down to the kitchens to learn about different types of tableware as part of my etiquette training. I must have been nine years at the time, if I recall correctly–”

”That's not okay, Iggy,” Prompto cuts in. He looks horrified as he grips the edge of the countertop behind him. ”That's seriously fucked up.”

This time, Ignis sighs. ”I know, Prompto,” he says; ”but what is done is done. Times have already changed and I doubt the practice of training an advisor from crib will be continued once the time comes for my precedessor to be chosen.”

Prompto snorts. ”Fat lot of good that'll do for _you_ ,” he huffs. ”Dude, are you – are you okay? How are you even okay? 'Cause none of that sounds good at all.”

Ignis draws in a breath and turns around to look Prompto in the eye. ”As I said, what is done is _done_. I am happy with my life and thought I will admit my childhood was not necessarily the most ideal one, I still would not go back in time to change anything. Are we clear on this matter or would you rather I continue repeating myself?”

His words come out a little sharper than he intends to but Prompto doesn't mind, shyly ducking his head instead of trying to argue back. ”Yeah, sorry,” he says, wringing his hands. ”You were, you were talking about the kitchens?”

Ignis nods. ”Indeed. My teacher had to attend an emergency meeting and couldn't get a message to me on time, so I ended up alone in the kitchens,” he continues his story, a small smile springing up on his lips over the memory. ”One of the cooks saw me standing there and asked if I would like to help him prepare some pastry for the Council's tea break.”

”Aww,” Prompto coos, a grin brightening up on his face. ”Little Iggy's first baking session! You didn't get in trouble over it, did you?”

Still smiling, Ignis shakes his head. ”Oh, no, quite the opposite. When my teacher eventually arrived, he found me spreading vanilla custard cream into small tarts and decided that there was an important lesson in understanding the hard work that went into all our meals at the Citadel.”

”Uh-huh, I've been in the kitchens once, it's ridiculous how amazing the food is when they've got a few hundred mouths to feed,” Prompto tones in, grin never fading from his face. ”Is that when you got interested in cooking?”

”That was the beginning, yes,” Ignis agreed with a nod. He spares a second to think of the little tarts, the clumsily filled shells and the shiny strawberry glace to hide his mistakes. ”My uncle and teachers all alike were more than happy to find out I had a new interest, something that could be called a hobby, so they all supported me in it.”

There's a hint of sadness in his words, the distant prickle of wetness threatening to well up in his eyes. Ignis blinks it away and flashes Prompto a smile that has the blond frowning softly. ”Of course, my journey from there to here was not without its problems. I learned about different vegetables, how to choose the freshest fish from the market, how to prepare and cook all kinds of meat cuts... But food is also nutrition, a facet of our health, so I studied both the human diet as whole and all the various little nutrients meant to nourish us. From minerals to carbohydrates to calories, I dissected it all.”

Here Ignis stops to glance at Prompto, whose frown keeps on turning deeper and more confused the longer Ignis speaks. ”Iggy?” he murmurs, clearly unsure of where the story is going or why Ignis is telling him it in the first place.

Long minutes have passed since Ignis stuck the chicken in the oven and began the conversation, and only now are they reaching the actual point of it. ”I was ten years old when I began to get in trouble for good. I was a child in a highly stressful environment, and had very little control over my own life. After I began to take an interest in food and cooking, that was one of the few issues where I was either allowed to or had the time to decide for myself.” He pauses but Prompto has no reaction other than the subtle shake of his head. ”So, on one hand, as time passed, I was able to take control of what I ate, when I ate, why I ate; but on the other, all the pressure built on me had me desperate to better myself in every aspect of my life.”

It should be clear by now there the story of headed to, but whether Prompto thinks it a confession or an intervention is something Ignis cannot tell. ”That – that sucks,” Prompto stumbles, gaze flicking about nervously, as if looking for an escape route or something to direct Ignis' attention to. He finds none and Ignis gives him a short smile.

”While studying nutrition, I naturally found out that the human body requires all kinds of things in certain, often very specific amounts, to properly function. I wrote myself an extremely detailed meal plan after that, calculating not only my daily calories but all the micro and macronutrients my body would need not just to survive, but to thrive and flourish. I procured supplements and counted the water I drank to make sure I had enough of it. I would not eat a single candy or pastry, nor would I drink soda or even sweetened teas. Back then the words used were slightly different, but it should be obvious now that I was suffering from orthorexia.”

Ignis' hands shake when he speaks the last words. As long as it has been, as okay as he is now – has been, for almost a full decade – this part of his past is not something he's used to mentioning so carefully. When he finally turns to look at Prompto, he sees the boy nervous, ready to bolt. His face is white, his lips trembling; either he's caught on or he's afraid of being found out. ”What happened next?” Prompto manages to speak in a whisper-thin voice. ”Because you're – you're okay now, aren't you?”

Ignis looks Prompto straight in the eye when he answers: ”Those close to me saw me struggling and got me help.”

”That's it?”

”That's it. I am as far in my recovery as is ever possible.” Ignis pauses, clears his throat. ”That said, I do believe you know why I'm telling you this.”

”Iggy...” Prompto keens. He presses against the countertop behind him, putting as much space between them as he can. At the end of the U-shaped kitchen, he's trapped by Ignis blocking his escape and they both know it. He still stares at the thin pathway between Ignis and the fridge, still wants to run and hide like he always does, but Ignis won't allow it. Not yet; perhaps he will, at the end, depending on how things go, but now that he has started he cannot stop here.

”Prompto, oh Prompto,” Ignis sighs, consciously dropping his shoulders into a casual, gentle slouch, hoping to look as threatless as possible. ”We're all worried about you, you sweet little boy.”

Those words are the straw that breaks the anak's back. Slowly, like a balloon with a leak, Prompto deflates, first slumping against the countertop and then sliding down on the floor, to sit sprawled in the corner of two rows of cabinets. Ignis watches him and feels a stab in his heart, a tightness around his throat; Prompto's breath hitches and Ignis feels little else but pain.

”I'm not–” Prompto tries, then dissolves into one, tearless sob that steals his breath and scruches up his face. ”Iggy–”

”Shh, Prompto,” Ignis hushes. Carefully, slowly, he steps closer to Prompto and settles down on the floor next to him, bracketing him between the cabinets and his own body. ”I know, darling, I know. It's not easy but you have so many people who care about, who want to help you get better.”

Now sniffling for good, Prompto shakes his head, tries to brush off Ignis' arms. He's skin and bones under his bulky hoodie and though Ignis had known – had assumed, had seen enough glimpses to piece the puzzle together – the feeling of his hands sinking deeper and deeper into thick, fluffy fabric feels like falling out of a nightmare, bottomless and heart-stopping.

Prompto won't talk, not like this, so biting his lips, Ignis chooses another tactic. ”It's a bit silly, isn't it? You start counting – you want to get better, healthier, so you start counting, and at first it works like magic so you count more, you restrict more, you cut here and there even though there's nothing left to cut from, and by the time you realize you're sinking too deep, there's–”

”Stop, stop, please just stop,” Prompto cries. There are tears on his downturned face, splashing on his hoodie and Ignis' arm, where it's settled around his disappearing waist. ”Please don't.”

For a split second, Ignis hesitates. He could stop here, let Prompto cry and leave without admitting to what's wrong, or he can try one more push in hopes of breaking through the last of Prompto's defenses. Licking his lips once, he comes to his decision. ”We all know what's happening, Prompto,” he speaks, crouching over and around Prompto like a protective barrier. ”We've seen you. We worry. You're not eating enough, Prompto, and we all know it.”

This time, the barriers break down for good and Prompto's cries grow louder, longer, until he's left gasping for breath against Ignis' shoulder. Ignis doesn't speak, not now; instead he simply holds onto the shaking form in his arms, rubs a hand against the little pebbles of Prompto's spine peeking through the hoodie, hums and hushes softly. While Prompto sobs, he waits, knowing that sometimes a good cry is the best medicine. Soon, Prompto will wear himself out, and either he will be ready to talk or he won't – Ignis won't push again, not today.

Eventually Prompto runs out of his tears and pulls back to slump against the cabinets once more, face red and snotty. He rubs at his eyes with an oversized sleeve, then turns the fabric to swipe his nose on it. Ignis swallows the urge to chastise him and chooses a small smile instead.

”What do you mean you all know,” Prompto croaks after a while, his voice flat and emotionless. He doesn't look at Ignis when he speaks, instead twiddling with his sleeves – an anxious tick, Ignis knows. ”You can't all–”

”We do, Prompto,” Ignis cuts in with a sigh. ”I'm sorry to say this but you have gotten so thin it doesn't take a person who knows you to realize something is wrong.”

Prompto doesn't answer. He stares down at his knees, face curtained by his falling hair, but it's not long enough to disguise the hard set of his lips or the way his eyes gaze forward without blinking. Forcing himself to remain calm, Ignis fixes his hold of Prompto's waist and begins speaking.

”Noctis was the first to notice something wrong, to tell the truth,” he says, speaking in a conversational tone as if they weren't talking about an extremely deathly disease. ”At first, he thought that you didn't have enough money for food, since you were always turning down all offers of junk food, but eventually we all began to notice it seemed like it was something more than that. The Crownsguard is a hotbed of various eating disorders because of how physical the work is, so they organize a yearly seminar over the topic, mandatory for all trainees and guards alike. Gladio knows the signs to look for, but in my case... well, you know that now, hm?”

His attempt to rouse an answer out of Prompto runs flat but Ignis isn't too bothered by it. Their talk has not been a long one in terms of minutes spent speaking – according to the kitchen timer, some twenty minutes have passed – but it has been a tiring one, an emotional one, and Ignis knows first hand just how hollow the aftermath is. So when Prompto sniffles, some last clumps of snot clogging up his nose, Ignis simply offers him a paper napkin and smiles.

Prompto blows his nose and folds the napkin, stares down at it before bursting out in a sudden chuckle. ”Is this why Noct and Gladio aren't here?” he asks, a wry smile clinging to his lips. ”Did you – did you plan this whole thing?”

”Indeed,” Ignis agrees, more than willing to admit to their little plan. ”Like I said: we've all been worrying about you. Noctis wanted to be the one to try to talk to you, but as you know, he can be a bit... brash at time, and so we agreed it would be better if I were the one to reach out to you over the matter.”

Still twiddling with the soiled napkin, Prompto huffs. ”More like interrogate me,” he murmurs under his breath. Ignis laughs in response and hands him a new napkin before sobering up.

”I won't force you to talk about it today, nor will Noctis or Gladio,” he says, trying to catch Prompto's eyes but not quite succeeding. ”However, I cannot leave it at this. I'm sorry, but I hope you understand.”

Prompto smacks his lips, shrugs. He's jittery, now; the aftermath of his tears has left him calmer in one way but anxious and keyed-up in another, so when he remains silent, Ignis doesn't push. In the oven, the curry paste sizzles on the chicken skin and bathes the room in the heave scents of garlic and ginger.

Ignis licks his lips. ”As I said, I won't force you to talk about it today if you don't want to,” he says slowly, ”but there is something I'd like you do all the same, if that's alright by you.”

That catches Prompto's attention and he looks up, dubious and slightly untrusting. Ignis knows and understands so he doesn't care, doesn't mind the fearful hate brimming in eyes better suited for gentle smiles and bright grins. ”What is it?” Prompto asks carefully.

”I'd like you to eat dinner with us,” Ignis says, laying his wish flat on the table. His words mean more than what they appear to, because it was already decided that Prompto would stay for dinner, and so they both know Ignis is asking more of him; he's asking him to eat, and for Prompto, that's clearly a problem. ”Oh, I know, honey, I know, but listen to me, please. Today's dinner is the chicken in the oven; good, healthy meats spiced with flavors I'm pretty _darn_ sure will be right up your alley, Prompto. We'll eat the salad you made, as well as some roasted brussel's sprouts, served with some simple, boiled barley.”

If he wants to finish the barley in time, he needs to start heating the water sometime soon, but right now, Prompto takes priority. The others will all understand, and the chicken will be just as fine even if it needs to sit for a while; Ignis knows how to time various food items and doesn't worry, not over this. Next to his side, Prompto sits silently, looking far more disheartened than Ignis has ever seen him before.

”It's a healthy meal, Prompto,” Ignis says, shifting around a little until he sits in front of Prompto instead of beside him. He takes Prompto's hands and smiles at him, trying to be encouraging. ”But most importantly, it's just that: one meal. I want you to focus on that part, okay? One, healthy meal won't hurt you in any way. It won't make you gain weight; a single, balanced meal does not have the power to do that. I'm not asking you to get better right now, I'm not asking you to fix everything on the spot. I'm asking you to look at the dinner and think of it as what it is: a single meal that won't matter come tomorrow. Do you think you can do that for me?”

Prompto shrugs, his eyes wet once more, but instead of pulling free he remains where he is, trembling hands grasped within Ignis' longer ones. He doesn't cry, this time, though he does sniffle a little, and so the moment passes. Soon Ignis stands up fill a pan with water, sets it on the stove and turns the heat on high; by the time he's finished, Prompto has picked himself up from the gound. He discards the used napkins and gives Ignis a shy, embarrassed smile, once again nudging his chin towards the direction the bathroom is; Ignis gives him permission and soon he is gone.

It could've gone a lot worse, Ignis thinks when Prompto has left the kitchen. Relief hits him like a post-adrenaline crash, a wave of numb emptiness washing over him; Ignis stands at the stove, his hands braced against the countertop on both sides of it, and breathes deeply. He texts Gladio and tells him it's okay to come in, then finishes the last two apples Prompto didn't have time to grate. When the boys arrive, Prompto's still in the bathroom, and Ignis gives them the brief on the discussion, reminds them that they agreed to leave Prompto be unless the situation called for intervention, and so it goes. They eat dinner together, three people casting glances at a young, blond man picking at his food, but Ignis can see him trying and so he ignores him and the awkward, jilted conversation that flows slower than ever before. When they're done, Ignis offers to take Prompto home, and Noctis breaks away to hug him tight.

It could've gone a lot worse, Ignis thinks once they're in the car. Prompto stops shaking halfway through the ride but Ignis doesn't try to speak to him. Even when they arrive at the small house Prompto lives at, he keeps quiet about the matter of Prompto's eating disorder, doesn't try to heckle him into talking, nor does he remind him about what's come to next. Prompto knows it himself and this is something Ignis sees without looking for it, the desperation, the relief, the inner conflict as fears battle against resignation. Today was the easy part; tomorrow, when Ignis talks to Prompto a second time, things will be a thousand times more difficult.

Ignis watches Prompto walk up to the locked front door, waiting until he's inside before backing out of the driveyard. He hopes that one day Prompto will be able to thank him, that one day Prompto will be in a place where he can appreciate the help forced on him, but Ignis knows that if that day is to come, it won't be here for a long, long time.

Still, he hopes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3 Kudos and comments are always super welcome, and you can also find me at tumblr, where my fandom sideblog is @missymoth :)


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